The Brick

By Jarek Kubicki | via

Speaking of pain, oh agony has never gripped me this tight in such way ever before. Every single thing reminds me of her. Every single time I laugh or smile, I’m instantly reminded of that morning and it’s like I’ve just swallowed a brick— the dustiest, heaviest, most excruciating block of stone. And when I do start laughing, it’s the most sad, hopless sound to ever come out of my mouth; its moments could be numbered in just one hand right before voices and memories storm and the brick falls. Sadness clouds my eyes, I have to close them and look down to retrieve them.

This brick, it’s in me all the time. I keep a tight grip on it so that it doesn’t wreck my insides. But just as my head inevitably descends into its archives, the effort I’m giving and sweat I’m shedding goes to absolute no avail as the brick I’ve been struggling to keep in control all this time slips right through my fingers, down past a hill, where I have to climb back down and lift it off the surface— which, also, feels like an ocean sinking my brick and trying to drown it away from my hands; to leave me in even a worse state. And I cant help but think, perhaps the ocean, too, like everything else, is against me.

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